


Sky Tears

by coffeeandcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Fuckbuddies, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, Shower Sex, Showers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Dean and Castiel's relationship is 90% sex and 10% conversation, and that's being generous. Castiel wants more, Dean wants to bury his feelings and just carry on as they are.But in typical Winchester style, Dean manages to make a mess of everything and, as a result, Castiel is left to cope alone with a family tragedy.For days, Castiel can't eat or sleep. And it turns out that dealing with his father's death is not something he's able to do alone.





	Sky Tears

**Author's Note:**

> For [hollyblue2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyblue2/pseuds/hollyblue2). Thank you for the prompt, I hope I did it justice. 
> 
> Not beta read, so any and all mistakes are my own.

Even  
After  
All this time  
The Sun never says to the Earth,  
  
"You owe me."  
  
Look  
What happens  
With a love like that,  
It lights the whole sky.  
**― Hafiz**

*

It’s raining outside. It’s the kind of light drizzle that soaks you to the skin within seconds, and the sky is heavy with the promise of more to come. It’s going to be a long day for anyone who needs to venture outside for any reason at all, especially if umbrellas and raincoats are in short supply. This type of rain sticks to eyelashes and eyebrows, makes hair glitter with the finest of water droplets, and seeps through clothing onto skin and into pockets to leave a wet sheen on anything residing inside. The wind doesn’t help either, and it sends blankets of rain buffeting against windows and doors, making glass panes rattle and creak.

Inside Castiel’s house, it’s raining in the bathroom, too. Or rather, just in the shower stall where he’s sitting against the wall with his knees pulled to his chest and his chin resting upon them. Light is slowly beginning to filter in from the open window as the sun rises, but Castiel barely notices. The water has run cold by now and his skin has broken out in gooseflesh, the hair on his arms and legs standing up, and gentle tremors run through him as his body fights to keep warm. His breath fogs in front of him - the bathroom was cold to begin with, the winter weather seeping in to purge the room of any residual heat it had managed to hold onto during the night - and the cold shower is only adding to the discomfort. It’s unhealthy, Dean always says, to keep his house so cold during winter, but Castiel finds it bracing. He exercises a lot and wears plenty of layers, warm sweaters and cardigans, so that tends to keep him warm enough. And when Dean’s here, the other man’s body heat is more than enough. Castiel uses him as a teddy bear and Dean is more than happy to be cuddled.

But Dean isn’t here right now. Hasn’t been here for a few days, and Castiel would be feeling his absence like a lost limb - if he held the ability to feel anything at all.

Dean left for Massachusetts on Tuesday night, right after they had a huge fight, one of their biggest in a long time, and Castiel hasn’t heard from him since. Dean had stormed out of Castiel’s house, slamming the front door so hard that the glass rattled in the frame, and could be heard cursing a blue streak all the way down to where the Impala was parked at the end of the garden path. All because Castiel had suggested they go away for the weekend together. Dean had balked initially, tried in grunts and whines to explain to Castiel that he ‘just isn’t ready for that kind of commitment’ and that what they have already is ‘so fun, Cas, can’t things just stay as they are?’ It had stung something awful, and Castiel had spent most of the evening waiting for Dean to call and apologise. But the hours passed and soon enough Dean’s 8pm flight took to the air (Castiel checked the airport website just in case it had been delayed and perhaps Dean was still going to call) and he went to bed in a fit of anger and self-pity.  

What he and Dean has, it isn’t enough for Castiel any more. It had started out as two close friends having a drunken kiss one night after too many beers, and progressed into something much more - at least physically. And, for Castiel, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. And he had hoped, on some level, that Dean wanted more from him too, that the false bravado and constant talk of being ‘just fuck buddies’ was just to mask his fear of commitment and that under it all Dean really did want them to settle down and have the apple pie life he always scoffs at.

Turns out he couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d tried. Hell, he should have a degree in Wrong. He should add it to the ‘Sanctimonious Asshole’ degree that Dean had accused him of having during their fight when Castiel suggested that Dean’s reticence to further their relationship was rooted in some internalised homophobia he still held onto from childhood. In hindsight, it was possibly the worst thing he could have said at the time.

‘You might be a psychologist, Cas!’ Dean had raved at him, gesturing wildly and making Castiel flinch back away from his ire. ‘But you ain’t _my_ psychologist. Quit thinking you know it all and just accept this for what it is - you, me, and a damn good time. But if that ain’t enough for you any more then I guess I’ll just see myself out.’

And then he did.

And not once had Castiel been tempted to call Dean. His pride won’t allow it. He knows when he’s not wanted, has had plenty of experience with rejection over the years, and he certainly isn’t going to humiliate himself by begging Dean to reconsider or to come home so they can talk it all out. If and when Dean gets in touch when he comes home, they can talk then. He was very matter-of-fact about it and had managed to get a firm handle on his emotions by the time he woke up on Wednesday morning.

Then, as he’d been eating breakfast and trying to get himself into the right frame of mind for the day ahead, his phone had trilled out a shrill chime and every muscle in his body had tensed then relaxed. Dean. Dean, calling to make amends, to sort everything out. He felt a swell of emotion rise up within him as he swiped his phone towards him and hit ‘accept’ without looking at the caller ID.

“I’m so glad you called. I’ve been thinking about you all night, I’ve barely slept…” He says in a rush, then his words freeze on his lips as a very familiar and very certainly-not-Dean-like voice sucks in a breath and replies.

“Well, Cassie, that isn’t what I was hoping to hear, but whatever floats your boat, I suppose.”

Castiel shoulders had slumped and he had leaned morosely over his toast, staring down at his plate sadly.

“Gabriel. Hi. Sorry, I was expecting something else. Is… Is everything okay?”

He straightens again suddenly as the tone of his cousin’s voice sinks in. Gabriel is normally fun-loving and excitable and usually would never pass up the opportunity to laugh at Castiel’s expense. But today he sounded flat and emotionless, and his feeble attempt at a joke had fallen utterly flat. Castiel knew then that whatever reason Gabriel was calling him for, it wasn’t a good one.

“What’s wrong?” He persists when no response is forthcoming down the line.

The conversation had been brief, Gabriel’s words stilted and thick with grief, and Castiel had let the phone drop to the table and the screen shatter with unseeing eyes, his breathing laboured and feeling as though the blood in his veins had turned to ice.

He’d called into work and told them, lips numb, that he wouldn’t be in for a while. He doesn’t remember the conversation. He vaguely remembers Gabriel calling back, telling him he would be flying out to see him as soon as possible, but beyond that it’s just a hazy mess of words and sadness and grief. So much grief.

Then not much at all.

The first three days following Gabriel’s phone call had been a blur. He hadn’t got out of bed apart from to drag himself to the bathroom when nature called, and hadn’t eaten a single thing for almost forty-eight hours. He’d managed to choke down some dry toast on day three, mainly because his stomach was in knots, cramping from hunger, and the pain was becoming unbearable. He hadn’t slept much, and when he did he had nightmares about the car crash that had taken his father’s life too early. Gabriel had been sparse on the details but his father’s Nissan had skidded on a patch of ice and careered off the road into a tree, bursting into flames on impact. It was the violence of his father’s death that haunted Castiel the most - and continues to do so. It makes him ill, the idea of the burning car with someone he loved inside, and he’s vomited multiple times since speaking to Gabriel.

Day four, and he was almost feeling well enough to go to work. He had dressed slowly: charcoal pants, white t-shirt, white shirt that now hangs from him, blue tie which he manages to tie backwards but doesn’t give it a second glance. But his sleep-deprived mind had him so mixed up that he’d gotten dressed before showering, and he’d leaned over to start the water without thinking, fully-dressed, and the spray had soaked his shirt instantly. And that had been enough to shatter his already fragile mindset and an hour later he finds himself sitting slumped in the shower, back against the wall, gaze fixed on the tiles in front of him and clothing soaked through and sticking to his skin. His hair is sodden and matted to his head and there’s water dripping into his eyes and mouth, but it barely registers.

He knows about the five stages of grief. But he didn’t think it would feel quite like this. Denial is meant to be the first stage, and he didn’t expect it to feel so… nothingy. He doesn’t feel in denial, he just feels numb. Empty. Like if he were hooked up to a heart monitor he would just flatline yet still be sitting there staring at them. There’s a low ache beneath his ribs and in his throat, and his eyes burn from too much silent crying. He’s tired and leans his temple against the tiles. He’s curled in the corner and a nap might help his state of mind. His eyes close and he dozes for a while, in and out of sleep, and he doesn’t hear the door open and close downstairs, nor footsteps making their slow, deliberate way up the stairs.

*

Dean feels pretty goddamn awkward. He’s pretty sure he’s going to be rejected - or worse, told to go fuck himself. Actually, that probably won’t happen. Cas doesn’t tend to swear much. But right now, he’s feeling uncertain of everything. He’s feeling skittish, unwelcome, and uncomfortable on every level.

He feels like a penguin.

He tugs at his bow tie where it cuts uncomfortably into his Adam’s apple, and feels a bead of sweat drip down his spine beneath his shirt. He’s dressed up to the nines in his best (only) tuxedo and bears a bunch of roses in one arm and candy in a heart-shaped box in the other. 

He’s waiting on Castiel’s front step now, waiting for him to answer the door, and it feels like he’s been waiting an age.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, when he’d started to plan everything out on the plane. He’s been brewing all week over what happened and throwing ideas around for how he can make it up to Cas without either angering him further or making either of them out to be a total ass. He remembered once, after a pretty intense round of lovemaking, they’d watched some crappy rom-com where the guy had turned up in a suit and tie with flowers and candy, and Cas had elbowed him in the ribs and asked when he was going to do that for him. Dean had rolled his eyes dramatically and gone down on Castiel instead. But that probably won’t cut it this time.

He knocks again, awkwardly, and almost drops the flowers. This was a stupid idea, and he’s starting to wonder if maybe Cas had spied him through a window and is avoiding him on purpose. He knows it’s kinda early to be dressed up as though he’s heading for the opera, and he didn’t expect to see Castiel’s car outside his house when his cab from the airport took a detour and just so happened to pass down this particular street. He wonders now why Cas is home early, and suddenly worries if he’s ill. He knocks again, a little louder, then tries the handle. To his surprise, the door opens easily and he’s left staring into Castiel’s hallway. Castiel never leaves his door unlocked - his neighbourhood certainly isn’t a bad one but there have been break-ins and trouble in the past, so Cas takes no chances. He deposits the flowers and chocolate on the hallway table and calls Castiel’s name, quietly at first then louder, then falls silent to listen.

There are no lights on in the house and the radiators are cold to the touch. When he strains his ears, the sound of rushing water from upstairs is faintly audible and he ascends the stairs slowly, his thoughts turning slowly to how he could surprise Castiel and make it up to him using his most valuable asset: his mouth. He imagines himself on his knees in the shower at Castiel’s feet and his cock twitches between his thighs.

“Cas?”

He taps on the bathroom door which opens a little at the impact, and he frowns. There’s no cloud of steam emanating from inside which is peculiar as Castiel’s showers are almost hot enough to scald his skin. A slightly sick feeling of concern beginning to coil in his belly, Dean pushes the door open all the way and stares, wide-eyed, at Castiel.

Last year, Castiel had Dean help him redesign his bathroom. It’s all dark tile with pale grouting, wooden flooring, claw-footed tub and walk-in shower. It’s spacious and relaxing and Dean loved helping him with the project, coordinating the contractors and rolling his sleeves up to step in when he thought he could do something better himself. He and Cas have shared many a happy memory in her, in the shower and in the bathtub together - and one not-so-successful time when Cas had bent him over the sink and taken him hard from behind while Dean’s sweaty palms slipped on the ceramic and he fell forward and split his lip open on the tap. But now, all the good memories freeze and shatter before his eyes as the scene in the bathroom before him reeks of nothing but pain and sadness.

Cas is curled in the corner of the shower stall, fully-clothed, his eyes half-open as water crashes down on him, and he hasn’t even flinched at Dean standing in the doorway. The air is cold, bitter, and there’s an icy breeze leaking in from the open window. He doesn’t need to test the water to know it isn’t hot.

“Cas?” He whispers and receives a slow, sluggish look in his direction in return.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel almost whispers it, looking down at his hands and blinking droplets from his lashes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No, I… I let myself in, your door was open.” Dean approaches slowly and squats down to Cas’ level at the entrance to the shower. “Are you okay?”

No response. Castiel just gazes straight ahead, blue eyes glassy and his lips bitten and raw and worry spears at Dean in low pulses. He reaches in and brushes Castiel’s hair aside, water slowly soaking his hand and arm. It’s freezing - how is Cas even sitting in it? And how long has he been like this?

“I used to do this as a child,” Castiel says, and his voice is so flat and emotionless that it sends an unpleasant, creeping feeling up Dean’s spine. “Whenever anything upset me when I was young, my parents would always find me crying in the shower. My father would call it ‘sky tears’. Sitting here, feeling sad, letting the falling tears wash away my own. I always thought it was odd, since he made it sound as though the shower was crying. He’d always say, ‘Castiel is in the bathroom, crying sky tears. Leave him alone for a while.’ And everyone would. Everyone always listened to him. I’d forgotten all about that until…”

He trails away, dropping his chin to his chest and taking in a deep, shuddering breath and he’s so wrought with sadness that Dean doesn’t think twice about what he does next. He moves into the shower, fully clothed in his tux and bowtie, and sits down next to Cas, toeing off his shoes and tossing them aside. He scoots in close, wrapping his arm tighter around Castiel’s trembling shoulders. He’s so cold, so worryingly cold. How can he stand this, sitting here freezing with the shower icy and the window open to allow a gale to blow in? He reaches up and turns the knob on the shower until the water runs warm and curls closer to a Castiel, rubbing his upper arms in an attempt to help. Castiel’s clothing is still chilled and must feel horrible, sticking to his skin everywhere. He doesn’t know what to do first, whether to get Cas out of the shower, out of his clothes and into a warm bed or to ask what the fuck is going on. A nauseating thought strikes him: this can’t be the fallout from their fight, surely? No way, Cas wouldn’t crumble like this just from Dean being an ass. Would he…?

As if he’s reading Dean’s mind, Castiel leans into him and lets out a low sigh.

“It’s not you, I hope you know that. I… I had a phone call after you left, and…”

Cas trails off again and a tremor shudders through him - and in an instant, Dean knows. He doesn’t know _who_ , but he knows Cas has lost someone close to him and that he’s struggling to cope with his grief. And all at once, guilt comes crashing down on him like an anvil. He should have been here; not only that, he shouldn’t have left Cas the way he did that damn night, shouldn’t have yelled in his face and slammed doors. He regretted it all the way to the airport and on his flight, then had no idea what to say or how to fix it from so far away. Now he wishes he’d not even got on the damn plane.

“Cas, I’m so sorry.” He leans in and pulls Castiel close to him, burying his face in his wet hair and pressing kisses wherever he can. “I’m so fucking sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. And for all the shit I said to you, Jesus, you didn’t deserve any of it.”

Castiel lifts his head to gaze at Dean and the cold, distant look in his blue eyes is chilling. Yet in the same movement, he presses closer, starting to shiver now that Dean’s presence has jolted him from whatever trance-like state he’d been in for however-the-fuck-long.

“My father died,” he says, and Dean feels it like a punch to the stomach. “In a car accident on Wednesday morning. I wanted to call you but…”

But he didn’t feel like he could after their big, stupid fight. And Dean hates himself for that. His grip on Castiel becomes bruising, and the water that had previously been running hot begins to chill again. His joints are starting to ache and he doesn’t want to think about how sore Castiel must be - nor how likely it is that he’s going to make himself sick sitting here for much longer. All thoughts of sex have gone out the window, and now all he wants to do is wrap the older man in blankets and cuddle him until everything comes right again.

“C’mon,” He eases himself up into a crouch, lifts Cas’ arm around his shoulders, and they both stand shakily. “Let’s get you dried off and into some warm clothes. Christ, Cas, you’re freezing. What are you trying to do to yourself?”

He deposits Cas on the closed toilet, turns the shower off, then begins to strip off his wet clothing and drops it in wet piles on the floor with unsettling slaps. Castiel is watching him blearily, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, a deep frown line tugging at his brows.

“You look so good, Dean. You’re wearing a tux?” He blinks owlishly, as though not quite sure what he’s seeing.

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter now. Just need to take care of you, nothing else is important.” He darts down the corridor to the bedroom and is back in under a minute with clean underwear and pajama pants for both of them, and Castiel’s warmest sweaters.  It takes a while, and lots of sighing and head hanging and groans of protest, but eventually he has Castiel dry and changed, and rubs most of the moisture from his hair with a towel that gets slung carelessly into the bath to be dealt with later.

In the bedroom, Castiel curls in on himself. Knees to his chest again, chin resting on them, eyes tired and heavy. Dean sits at his side and rubs his back, at a loss for what to do now. Should he call Sam? Sam would know what to do, he always does. But before he can decide, Cas leans into him sighs.

“I thought I’d be okay. That I could deal with this by myself. But… I never even got a chance to say goodbye. He basically raised us, Dean. Me, Jimmy and Gabriel. After our mother died, we got really close. He taught me piano, taught me how to drive. Encouraged me to study psychology, helped me open my practice. He was always so proud of every paper I wrote. He told me all the time. And I…” Castiel sniffs, a low, wet sound, and wipes his nose with his sleeve. “I was always too busy to go see him. He’d ask all the time and I’d always put him off. I thought I had time. We should have had time…”

All Dean can do is hold him. Pain radiates from Cas in waves and he’s powerless to do anything about it. More tears come and Cas buries his face in his folded arms, Dean rocking him gently and feeling close to crying himself. He had only met Cain Novak a few times, but he had been a kindly man who kept bees and welcomed Dean into his home like another son. And now he’s gone, and the gaping hole he’s left could rival the Grand Canyon.

A while later, he makes sure Cas is covered with his heavy blankets and that he’s settled, then he goes to investigate the state of the kitchen and prepare a snack for both of them. But when he opens the refrigerator, he stops short. Nothing is really edible in there. There's out-of-date food, spoiled food, and not much he can really make for them to eat. A cold feeling sweeps over him - has Cas been eating at all since he got the news about his father? It doesn’t look like it, and he had felt slimmer in Dean’s arms as he’d helped him to dry off and guided him to bed. Castiel’s kitchen is usually immaculate and fully-stocked so to see plates piled in the sink and half-finished cups of tea scattering the surface is jarring. It looks like Cas has attempted to eat and drink but hasn’t been able to get beyond starting to cook before giving up.

There’s bread, butter and honey, so Dean makes them both thick slices of toast, two steaming cups of peppermint tea, then slides back under the covers with Cas and manages to coax him into eating. They eat together, Castiel lying against Dean’s chest, and they get crumbs in the bed which would normally make both of them scowl. But today, anything goes. Then, when they’ve finished and both their plates are discarded on the floor, Castiel does something unthinkable. He turns in Dean’s arms and kisses him, and it’s all heat and sticky-sweetness and desperation, and Dean kisses back for a moment out of surprise before gently nudging Cas back and holding him there with a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing, sweetheart? We don’t need to do this right now.”

“Yes, Dean. We do. _I_ do.” Castiel’s eyes are red-rimmed but dry now, and he looks ashen pale with dark shadows under his eyes. Yet his gaze drops to Dean’s lips and he licks his own, inching closer, and Dean is helpless to reject him. “I need to feel something. I need to remember what it’s like to feel something good again. I need to know you’re really here and I’m not still…” His voice cracks a little on the last word. “Alone.”

“Cas. Baby. God, I’m so sorry.” Dean wraps him in his arms, shifting them both this way and that until they’re snuggled under the blankets, lying on their sides facing each other. He cups Castiel’s cheek and kisses him, all feeling but attempting to keep it chaste. “I never should have left you that way. I never should have been such an ass. You said a bunch of wonderful things to me and I freaked out like a teenage jock and ran for the hills. I don’t deserve you, I really don’t.”

“I don’t think I care about any of that right now, Dean.” Castiel’s hand is exploring, pushing up under his t-shirt to stroke the soft skin of his stomach and Dean wriggles, ticklish. “I just want you here. Close. I want to feel you.”

And Dean can’t protest. Castiel’s eyes are bright and he’s determined, and Dean wants to do whatever he can to push the grief aside even for a moment. So he allows it, encourages open-mouthed kisses and helps Cas out of his sweater and tosses it to the end of the bed with his own.

It’s hot, hurried, and Castiel pants into his mouth the entire time as Dean’s hand works him into an aroused frenzy, bringing him closer and closer to orgasm. Their Panama pants are pushed down to their thighs, tangling their legs, and they arch against each other as their pleasure crests. It’s bittersweet for Dean; he finds he can’t truly let go and enjoy it, knowing Cas has been through such an awful trauma. But he’s more than happy to allow his own body to be used however Cas wants to try and bring him the pleasure he craves. They both sweat beneath the sheets and Cas buries his face in Dean’s neck, panting and gasping there, hiding away as his orgasm overwhelms him. He spills over Dean’s fist, hot and sticky, and Dean follows him moments later even as Castiel’s movements on him become slow, jerkier, his grip tightening and easing in spasms as aftershocks wrack his body.

It’s a long while before either of them can catch their breath enough to speak, and even then it seems like the wrong thing to do. The silence that has settled upon them is thick, loaded, and could go in any direction, intimacy or anger or more pain, and Dean is worried that Castiel will spiral off to the deep end again, and he won’t know what to do. But soon enough, Cas is singing against his skin and pressing close, all warm embraces and gentle lips.

“You okay?” Dean brushes Castiel’s hair back and kisses the end of his nose. Cas can only nod, still trembling, still sticky with come and sweat, and Dean helps him back into his clothing before adjusting his own. They’ll need to shower, but it can wait. Everything can wait. “I missed you, man. So damn much.”

Castiel gives him a strange look, tinged with sadness, then drops his gaze to where their chests are almost meeting, and Dean frowns. Cas is all tense again, like he was in the shower when he was so cold, and that’s all kinds of wrong right now.

“What is it?”

“You called me ‘man’,” Castiel murmurs. “Like ‘buddy’. I guess I just thought…”

“Cas.” Dean cups his chin and presses a kiss to his mouth, feeling his cheeks flush warmly. “You misunderstood me. Cause, I was kinda hoping you would be.”

“Would be?” Castiel’s little frown is back and Dean wants to kiss it away. “Would be what?”

“My man.”

He says it quietly, suddenly shy, and Castiel’s blue eyes widen in disbelief for a moment before a slow, joy-filled smile spreads across his lips. Then he buries his head in Dean’s chest and _laughs_ , and it’s a full-body laugh that makes his shoulders shake and Dean wraps an arm around him, smiling ruefully into his hair.

“Oh god, Dean,” Castiel snuffles, sounding like he’s crying tears of laughter. “Dean Winchester. Your lines are cheesier than Doritos, I swear.”

Dean can’t help but laugh in agreement at that. “Damn straight. But if you love them half as much as you love Doritos then I don’t see a problem here. Do you?”

“No, Dean.” Castiel lifts his head, lying back on the pillows and gazing at Dean with a soft, love-struck expression. “No problem at all. And of course I’ll be your man. All you had to do was ask.”

“Yeah, well, you know me. I like a bit of drama here and there.” He wraps an arm around Cas’ neck and draws him close to kiss his forehead. “I just wish I hadn’t been such an ass about it, and that you hadn’t had to go through all this shit alone. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have been alone.”

“It’s okay.” Cas shuffles in his arms, getting comfortable by pushing Dean to lie on his back and using his chest as a pillow - it’s both of their favourite positions to fall asleep in. They’re both still sticky, their combined release growing tacky as it cools, but he can ignore the discomfort because having Cas here in his arms is so much more important. “You’re here now. And that’s all that matters. We can work it all out later. Let’s just be here, now. Together. Just us.”

They lie quietly together for a while, each tracing patterns on the other’s skin. Afternoon bleeds into evening and the sun goes down outside, plunging the bedroom into cool, greying shadows. Dean plays with Castiel’s hair, kisses his temple.

“When’s the funeral? I haven’t missed it, have I?”

“No.” It takes Castiel a moment to gather himself enough to continue. “It’s on Wednesday. Gabriel took care of everything. I think he knew I was a bit… upset.”

Understatement of the year. But Gabriel will have done a fantastic job, and Dean owes him a beer or two in thanks when he sees him. He tries to imagine Cas, broken and grieving, trying to assemble himself to organise his father’s funeral and it just wouldn’t have happened. Castiel would have crumbled no doubt. It’s jarring, seeing him like this. He’s normally so collected and strong, and from what Dean’s heard, he got it from his father. So it’s no surprise that learning of the man’s death would be the one thing that could break him down.

“Will you come?” Castiel turns his head to look at Dean. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course, baby.” Dean kisses him, tasting the salt of Cas’ silent tears once more. “I’ll be there, right by your side. You can count on that.”


End file.
